


Real

by OrionLady



Series: Figlio Mozzato [3]
Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Bombing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Character Death, Protectiveness, Shock, Team as Family, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-24 16:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Three letters change Greg Parker’s life.“…Officer on scene is presumed KIA.”The world stutters to a halt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the end of the series. Bon apetit!
> 
> Soundtrack/Listening for the piece:  
“I’ll Keep You Safe” ~ Sleeping At Last  
“Stars” ~ The Weepies

Three letters change Greg Parker’s life.

He’s been watching with dejection up until this point, of course. Worry causing him to nibble at his cuticles. He knows this is a level two emergency, knows exactly who would be taking this kind of call and what protocol would demand of them.

Somehow, even with all that head knowledge, it doesn’t hit Greg at first.

“…Officer on scene is presumed KIA.”

The world stutters to a halt.

All the students, huddled around an Academy issue laptop, whip their eyes around to Greg with absolutely zero subtlety. Greg keeps his face blank, eyes on news coverage where they’ve been for the last thirty minutes.

_No. No, no, no._

The newscaster shuffles his papers. “We will bring you further updates as we learn more.”

Sergeant Parker has become a legend in only a year at the Academy. He doesn’t form strong attachments to students but it doesn’t matter—stories circulate—

They know who’s under that rubble too.

Classes are supposed to resume but none of the other instructors have bothered. They too are gathered around TVs and phones in the cafeteria. Hands over their mouths. Some weep softly. It’s a choreographed scramble to call loved ones and say tender words, just in case.

The political terrorists bombed a justice building.

Everyone had been evacuated but the lone officer inside, trying to defuse a second bomb. It’s Galina all over again.

This hits close to home for other reasons too, to everyone in the city. For the lives lost in the serial bombing attack of Faber’s revenge plot.

Greg reaches up, removes his hat, and stops hearing the newscast.

There’s a pulsing in his ears. He’s pleased to note it’s slow. He doesn’t realize he’s dialed a number from memory until the phone at his ear goes to a familiar voicemail.

The afternoon wears on, unbearable. Students are dismissed early and Greg redials over and over again.

Logic tells him the team is drowning, busy.

Grieving.

Of course they don’t have time to answer his frenzied calls.

Alone in a private bathroom, Greg shoves his cane away, slides to the floor, and hides himself from the world with two broad palms over his eyes. He’s dry sobbing. He can hear that much.

But there are no tears. Not for this kind of pain. This brand demands his all and nothing less.

It is not a grief that processes or works through what happened. This is a grief of shock and betrayal and horror. The ugly sounds coming out of his mouth are like the grinding of a house before it falls, the warning creak of beams that cannot hold their weight.

And then Ed calls _him_.

Greg fumbles to swipe and accept the incoming call. “Ed? Are you alright? Is the team—”

“_The threat’s been neutralized_,” says Ed. The sniper’s voice is steady to the untrained ear. To Greg, it rasps. Like Ed’s been screaming. “_No more bombs._”

That doesn’t even remotely answer Greg’s fears. “Jules? Leah?”

“_Everyone on the team is unharmed. Well…_”

If avoiding Greg’s questions had been unusual, Ed hesitating is downright unheard of. It sends Greg into a mania, standing and limping to his car and—

“_Greg! Hey! I already had to convince Winnie to stay at the station and fight Sam and Jules off. Don’t make me deal with another emotionally compromised person. Okay?_”

Greg notices only then that he’s having a panic attack behind the wheel of his parked car. “Our _boy_, Eddie! He was our boy!”

The sob that comes out of him is hardly human. He bangs on the steering wheel and then on his chest, unashamed of his wails and hearing them echoed in Ed’s sigh.

A pause. A deliberate, thoughtful pause.

“Ed?”

“_That’s why I called._” Ed’s voice shifts to a low, urgent cadence. “_We need you here._”

“For what? Ed, I’m just going to join this basket case convention.”

“_…You’re not going to believe this._”

“Try me.”

“_He’s alive._”

Greg’s heart positively _stops_. When it decides to snare to life again, Greg fights black spots in his swimming vision. “I’m sorry…_what_? Eddie, in that footage…full SUVs were pancakes. Concrete pillars disappeared into dust. Nobody could have survived a whole building coming down like that.”

_Is Ed in denial? A delusional state? _Greg’s mind races overtime.

“Ed—”

“_I’m not crazy, Greg. I’m staring at him right now._”

* * *

When Greg pulls into the hospital, he expects an unconscious figure. Wan. Maybe not breathing. Bloodied and torn to shreds. Bones a fragmented soup inside his broken body. Minutes to live.

His first impression, walking through the doors of Emergency, is of autumn. He’s stepped into the woods. Leaves whispered by erratic winds.

A hushed yet tense rustle fills the room.

Greg is struck by the sheer number of people in a rough semi-circle at the back of the waiting area. It’s quiet. Too quiet for an emergency room.

They keep their distance, though. Even Ed, crouched in front.

_Why?_ Is Greg’s first thought. _Isn’t time essential?_

His second shock is that most of these people are doctors. Not just nurses or paramedics. _Specialists_. Already robed and itching to get their hands on someone.

Greg rounds the receptionist, pale behind his desk, and sees just who that someone is.

He stops dead.

An old anthropology class flashes into his mind, on the indigenous people of Ethiopia; their white face makeup, acting as masks. The second image is of 9/11 survivors with ash in their hair:

He’s a ghost—covered full body in powder. On the rare occasion he blinks, fan lines touch his cheeks from his long eyelashes.

No blood. He sits under his own power in a waiting room chair, if a bit slumped. An oxygen mask is looped around his face.

Ed spots Greg and rushes to intercept before he can limp over. “Hey, no.”

“Ed, let me see him.”

“Not yet. Just…he’s not…”

“Eddie!” Greg laughs, weeping. “He’s alive! He made it! How?”

Ed shakes his head. “We searched that rubble for hours, top to bottom. No body. Then we get a frantic call from the hospital that he just walked himself through the doors and stumbled into that chair. Where he’s been ever since.”

Ed’s eyes shine and he hasn’t been this wide eyed, vulnerable, since the day he held Greg in his arms while he bled out. “I don’t have any other word for it but a miracle, Greg.”

“Did he tell you how he got out?”

“The first bomb was weak, a trap for the main event. Only five minutes on the timer for the second bomb that needed at least three times as long to defuse.”

That doesn’t answer his question but Greg senses there are more important things to focus on right now.

He nods. “An impossible scenario.”

“It was too late, Greg.” Ed’s lips quiver once. That sight is the third bomb of the day. “By the time we recalled him, he was already in the parking garage, lowest level. It would have taken over seven minutes just to climb the stairs at a dead run. Elevator busted. We sent him to his coffin.”

Greg closes his eyes, even though their boy is sitting _right there._

“Hearing’s not damaged.”

Greg opens his eyes. “How can you tell?”

Ed gestures with his chin. “I ordered him to put the oxygen mask on himself since he won’t let anyone near him and he did.”

Then Greg sees it:

A gun sits in Spike’s lap. Greg’s world tilts for a brief second. The sight is _wrong_.

“Hospital staff tried to rush him,” Ed explains. “He flipped out and pulled his Glock.”

“Has he threatened anyone with it?”

Ed thinks this over, eyeing the whispering staff and Spike’s dead stare. “Not exactly. Wouldn’t allow me or anyone else to touch him. When I tried to creep forward, he put his hand on it and glared at me.”

“He knew you’d back off,” says Greg, awed.

Ed doesn’t reply. A muscle jumps in his jaw. 

“What’s wrong with him, Eddie?”

“I’ve never seen him like this.” And there’s real fear in Ed’s eyes. “He hasn’t said a single word, unresponsive. But I know he can see and hear. Can move on his own.”

Greg’s raging brain takes a quick left turn somewhere around _familiar_ and parks on _purpose_.

He calms immediately.

“I got him, Ed.”

“Are you sure?”

Something primal links hands with the negotiator part of Greg’s mind newly awakened. The pair of those instincts makes a formidable team. “Are you going to keep me from him?”

Ed holds up both hands. “Wouldn’t dare.”

Greg pulls up a chair in front of Spike, ignoring the many eyes he can _feel_ follow the motion. Ed stands at Greg’s side. Greg winces when he lowers himself.

His cane is safely hooked over the arm of the uncomfortable wooden hospital chair. He’s amazed that after hours of physical therapy, the bullet hole in his leg still pains him. A scar that will never heal.

Greg finally spies the gun carefully hidden behind Ed’s thigh and sucks in a noisy breath. His gut constricts.

It takes effort for his voice to come out level and not the growl he longs to use. “No need for that, Ed. Not here.”

Ed’s brows draw together. “If he threatens one of the staff…”

“He won’t.” Greg at last faces his boy. “Will you, Spike?”

Spike’s gaze floats straight through Greg. Through Ed. Through the whole tableau. He’s not focused on any of them right now, not even Greg’s hand when he waves it in front of the tech’s eyes.

Their faces are not two hand lengths apart, but Greg has never felt so far from Spike. They might as well be on different continents.

_Where are you, Spike? What are you seeing?_

Because Spike is seeing _something_. His dilated eyes, pupils blown to unhealthy magnitude, dart in minute movements from side to side at a fixed point just over Greg’s right shoulder.

“It’s me, son.” Greg speaks softly, a gentle tone he only feels safe using because it’s just Ed here with them. He has their back. He shields them from prying eyes. “I’m here. It’s okay now. The bombing is over and you’re okay.”

He tempts fate, stretches in an inch-by-inch crawl for the back of Spike’s neck. The crowd gasps softly.

Greg’s hand makes contact but still Spike doesn’t move.

He squeezes once. “You with me, buddy?”

Spike’s lips move behind the mask. Silently, one syllable that Greg would know anywhere.

“Not ‘boss’ anymore.” Greg chuckles. “That’s Eddie here. It’s me, it’s Greg.”

No response. Spike doesn’t even blink. In fact, he’s so mannequin-still that Greg has to keep an eye on the hospital mask and how it fogs, just to be reassured he’s breathing.

“You did a great job today. Defused that first bomb in the judge’s car so it didn’t hurt anybody. Danger’s over. Can you hand me your sidearm?”

Spike doesn’t, but he’s also limp while Greg reaches across with his free hand and slips it off Spike’s lap.

Ed leans down to take it. Greg hands it to his friend without looking.

“Could it be bomb shock?” Greg wonders aloud.

Ed throws him a shrewd look. “That’s archaic of you. I believe we just call this _shock_. He’s traumatized, Greg.”

Greg jaw ticks one way, then the other. “No. _Bomb_ shock. It’s different. Sometimes people caught in blasts, they have trouble understanding where they are. Equilibrium, time—they’re both distorted. Slowed way down to the point of incoherence.”

“The doctors are more worried about bleeding on the brain,” says Ed.

That doesn’t fit. Greg is no trauma doctor, but he’s had exhaustive hours of training and he knows if that were true, Spike probably wouldn’t be sitting upright under his own strength either. Or hearing. Or seeing.

And there’s no sign of a head injury.

In fact, there’s no sign of _any_ injury.

“You really are our lucky charm, huh?” Greg’s fingers knead out the tension in Spike’s neck. “Or our guardian angel. I swear you’re going to use up your nine lives before you reach thirty.”

Ed gasps and Greg’s hand drops in surprise—

A thick line of tears fill Spike’s eyes. They don’t fall, blinked away quickly, but it’s the most emotion they’ve seen from this void affect.

Spike is back to that blank body language in a heartbeat. Still, trained to read people, Greg knows he saw it.

“Spike.” Ed bends forward now. “Can you talk to us, bud? Where are you in your mind right now? How can we fix it?”

Spike’s stare doesn’t waver and Ed makes a frustrated sound. A helpless one, a parent who can’t do anything for their child.

Greg taps at Spike’s hand. He notices that the fingers are bloody, on both hands. “I’m glad you’re okay, Spike. I heard the news and I thought…”

Tears have been Greg’s food on long nights. He’s done more weeping in the past year than he cares to admit.

Yet he lets it happen when the back of his eyes burn. Lets Spike see the tears because he deserves it. It’s the least Greg can do for him after how he’s saved them all over and over again.

“You’re mio figlio, Spike.” Greg’s whisper thickens with emotion. “You’re the reason I stay at this tedious job—because if the next generation is going to have your back, they’d better be the best.”

He feels Ed smile. The man’s larger hand joins Greg on Spike’s.

The pulse beats of each man ring through the skin-to-skin contact. Greg’s hand is sandwiched between the two, held up by the son while the stalwart honour of his best friend protects them both.

Spike is still lost somewhere Greg can’t chart, but Ed and Greg hold their breath when two laden tears cut through the grime on Spike’s cheeks, leaving dark pink lines, and dirty his SRU collar. 

Greg can resist the impulse no longer.

He lurches forward and gathers Spike into his arms, rocking them. Spike doesn’t move. Is a rag doll in Greg’s arms.

Medical staff take that as their cue—the patient will allow touch and the threat is vanquished—to swarm the pair. They must be desperate to over ride Ed’s protective, barked warnings.

It’s funny that despite a team of ten or more doctors and nurses, they still can’t pry Greg and Spike apart.

Dread, trepidation, pesky voices of experience with cases like this, they all nip away at Greg’s composure. He still doesn’t know what’s wrong. Still has no answers. Still has to break the news to everyone.

Here and now, all Greg allows himself to feel is suffocating _gratitude_.

He doesn’t know who he’s thanking, but he repeats it into Spike’s dust-lathered hair until he’s hoarse.

“Thankyouthankyou…I’ve got you…thank you…thank you.”

Spike makes an aborted sound, like a cough. Greg wants to whoop and holler in victory and flip fate the bird. Spike is responding! The garbling continues, in Greg’s ears akin to a baby shrieking when he first comes out of the womb.

Then Ed’s face crumbles. Greg pulls back to look—

The inside of Spike’s oxygen mask is sprayed with blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack/Listening for the piece:  
“I’ll Keep You Safe” ~ Sleeping At Last  
“Stars” ~ The Weepies

“Nosebleeds?”

Greg would laugh if he weren’t nearly hysterical with alarm.

The doctor in her cap and gown nods, studying the two burly men who refuse to leave the viewing window. “I’ll be honest, officers…I’ve been at this job eighteen years. And I’ve never seen someone come out of a bombing unscathed like Constable Scarlatti has.”

Ed catches Greg’s eye. “A miracle?”

“Sure.” She smiles, a tiny one. “That word fits quite well here, in my personal view.”

Like the finale of a grand opera, Greg sits in the chair Ed’s been trying to get him to rest in since this whole debacle began. The tests have taken hours. Supper has come and gone while they waited here.

Ed deflates too, leaning his palms on the window ledge.

The three gaze at Spike for a moment, still awake, staring up at the ceiling from his hospital bed.

He’s still faintly covered in grime, though they wiped the worst of it off for all the CT scans and MRIs and a host of blood tests Greg can’t even remember the names of, topped off by a local ultrasound.

“He’s fine,” says the doctor again. “All tests came back clean, though he is majorly dehydrated, almost like…” She frowns, pensive. “But he lost no blood that we could find. Not even a broken bone. No bleeding or fluid on his brain, though he has a concussion.”

“How can he have a concussion without any marks on him?” Ed asks.

He’s got a point, one Greg hasn’t thought about.

“We don’t see shock wave concussions very often,” the doctor admits. “It’s caused by the rolling wave from a blast, hitting directly on his skull. The brain inside is jostled, for lack of a more sophisticated word, and hits the inside of the cranial wall.”

Greg looks at twin fields of gauze they’re applying to Spike. “And his hands?”

This sobers her, which in turn makes Greg tense.

“He did some digging,” she says. Her attempt at neutral wording doesn’t work and Ed swears softly. “The skin broke from repeated scratching at a hard surface, probably the concrete.

“It’s good news, though. No internal bleeding in his organs. The worst physical damage is that concussion and all the gyprock he inhaled.”

_That_ particular problem Greg and Ed didn’t need a doctor to notice.

Spike suffered three coughing fits in succession over only a twenty minute period when all this started. His lungs are raw. Hence the blood and nosebleeds.

“We’re keeping him overnight for observation,” she finishes. “But he should be able to go home in the morning.”

“And the lack of response?” Greg asks.

She sighs. Her eyes are sagging, lined. “We can’t be sure it isn’t the concussion, but…”

Ed turns. “Doc?”

“In my professional opinion, it’s a psychological issue.”

Both men shake her hand, relieved beyond words there isn’t more damage, and then the door closes. Neither says a word. Just watch Spike breathe and those eyes still lost somewhere they don’t understand.

Greg almost blurts, _“I should have been there today.”_

But that’s not right. Every single member of this team-family was exactly where they were supposed to be.

“Jules called earlier,” says Ed in a quiet murmur Greg barely hears. “She’s on standby in case you and she have to decide…”

Greg nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“The team has agreed to back off for tonight.” Ed sinks into the neighbouring chair. “Winnie is staying with Leah. Marina said something about cooking for them.”

They watch a nurse come in, leading Spike to the bathroom where—hopefully—they’ll get the evidence of this hellish day off him.

He really can hear and understand. That fact hits home when Spike does exactly what the woman tells him, eyes glazed but lucid. She doesn’t make any physical contact with him. The staff have figured out that much. She hands him two bags to tape over his hands.

“I should go help.” Greg wavers to his feet. He’s forced to lean heavily on the cane. “He’ll let me touch him.”

“Greg—”

Ed shoots up but keeps his distance at the agonized fire in Greg’s eyes.

“Why won’t he _talk_, Eddie? It’s like he’s not here at all!”

“I don’t know.” Ed fights tears. “I don’t know, okay? This isn’t a gunman or a jumper or something I can fix.”

“But we have to,” Greg whispers. “We can’t lose him, Ed.”

Ed is not a tactile person, the opposite of Greg. So it throws Greg off kilter when the man wraps him in a strong, melting hug. Greg embraces him back with the arm not keeping himself upright.

“We won’t,” Ed breathes into his shoulder. “Spike is just lost. It’s our job to find him.”

“Where is he, Eddie?” Greg moans out the abject horror of this day. Lets his friend carry his weight for a second. “Where is our boy?”

“I don’t know.” Ed’s hands shake around Greg’s back. “I don’t know and I can’t do this job if he doesn’t come back.”

The words, even more than the hug, are a blinding declaration of how peeled open Ed is right now. Greg loses his breath.

Then _he’s_ holding Ed’s weight and they tremble, alone, in the viewing room until Greg runs out of tears. 

* * *

By the time Greg regains his composure and Ed isn’t pastier than a bed sheet, Spike has already showered and walks out in one of Ed’s massive hoodies—it comes down past Spike’s hands—and sweats. It’s a relief to see no trace of ash on his body.

Greg meets Spike and the nurse at the door. He helps tear the bags off his hands. “There he is! Feel better, Spike?”

Spike doesn’t answer, of course. His eyes are fixed ahead, but not on where they’re going.

“Didn’t even have to touch him,” says the nurse. She grins. “He showered on his own. Pulled the curtain and everything.”

_Well, that’s something_. Now if only Spike’s eyes would come back to the present. His gaze is empty, absent. He refuses to speak or respond to questions. It’s like a trance.

The nurse tries to steer him to the bed and that’s where they hit their first snag.

“Spike?” Greg ambles around to face him head on. “Don’t you want to sit down?”

And he immediately does—in the visitor’s chair.

Greg brushes at Spike’s shoulder, trying to get him to move. No luck. Spike won’t budge an inch. The nurse and Greg have a silent conversation with their eyes. He shrugs.

“I know when to pick my battles,” she says. “Scarlatti, I’ll be back with your supper.”

Greg is at ease once it’s just the three of them. It’s an old vestige of their lives before the bombing. A familiar scenario. Just Ed, Greg, and Spike working on a solution to the problem.

Greg can’t kneel down anymore, thanks to his bum leg, but Ed does it for him.

“Hey, squirt,” says Ed in a voice so affectionate Greg wouldn’t recognize it if he wasn’t staring at his friend.

It’s been so long established that Greg loves Spike like his own that he’s missed how much Ed looks out for this kid. How close they’ve grown during Greg’s year away. 

“Hey,” says Ed again. “We’re here. It’s Ed and Greg. Whatever you’re seeing, Spike, it’s not real. I promise, I _promise_—if you just step out, we’ll catch you.”

Ed holds up his hand. When Spike doesn’t react to it, Ed’s palm makes it to the tech’s face. He rubs a thumb over Spike’s cheekbone.

It strikes Greg that this is the first physical contact the two have had since Ed watched the building cave. The sniper’s chest heaves in a fought-off choke of emotion.

A beat later, Greg realizes what he’s looking at. He breathes an epithet.

“Whoa!” Ed leans back but doesn’t let go of Spike’s face. “Whoa…”

Spike whole body erupts in violent shakes, an earthquake from his hands to his feet. They’re fast and twitchy. Quivers that jitter the very teeth in Spike’s head; Greg can hear their clacking from three feet away.

Ed rises from his knees to a half standing position. His other hand joins the first. “Easy, Spike. Spike? It’s okay. Easy.”

Spike’s eyes are still clouded, but his face contracts, like he’s in pain.

Not pain. _Distress._

Urgency filters into Ed’s posture and Greg watches him work to keep his grip light on Spike’s face. He murmurs low, soothing words.

The episode is messy. It’s torture to watch, though there’s nothing to do but ride it out and be there for Spike.

“Can you slow that breathing down?” Ed coaches Spike, still stroking his cheekbones. “Nice deep breaths?”

Spike doesn’t exactly do what Ed asks, but in the next moment, his eyes _finally_ shift.

Right onto Greg.

“Gr’g?”

It’s the first word out of Spike’s mouth—both Ed and Greg softly cry out before they can censor it. Over five hours of total silence broken by one muddled syllable.

Spike fights Ed’s hands trying to peer around them. His huffed, “Ed…Boss…where…” turns into a panic attack.

Greg’s own blood pressure skyrockets to see Spike’s face drain of colour, eyes woozy, and his lungs wheeze in unsteady rhythms. His coughing starts up again.

“Look at me. Spike, _now_.”

Ed’s sharp order does the trick.

Spike does look at Ed. Wide-eyed, a caged animal. A clot of blood fills his mouth and trickles over his chin.

His eyes are slightly down, fixed on the deliberate rise and fall of Ed’s chest. After an unbearable few minutes, his breathing starts to match it.

“Boss…?”

“You’re at the hospital.” Greg’s aching tone draws Spike’s eyes to him. “You did great. Nobody died today, though quite frankly it’s a wonder you didn’t.”

Greg waits for the slump of relief. The flush of rosy colour to Spike’s cheeks. The blurted explanation of how he got out. Maybe one of those knee-jerk hugs for Ed he initiates after tough calls.

Instead, in a gradual fade, Spike’s face dissolves. It’s so slow, so harsh a transition from that blank face to complete anguish that Greg has a hand on his bowed, wet head before he thinks to move.

Spike’s chest is bucking again, only this time it’s from grief. Greg hasn’t seen him weep like this in years.

Tears jump from his scrunched eyes. The tech’s forehead pops with ropy tendons. He slides a hand over his eyes but Ed won’t let him pull away.

Neither man has any idea what’s hurting Spike. Ed grits his teeth in helplessness. Greg just weeps with him, bending down to plant his lips in Spike’s hair.

They stay there while Spike warbles out a long note of pain. Not physical. Greg feels the stab of it inside his own chest.

Ed huddles close to him and croons out words of reassurance, that they’re all okay. He’s safe. The explosion wasn’t his fault. He gets close enough to press against the side of Spike’s head.

Together, they hold his tottering weight up.

“Gotta go!” Spike finally chokes out. He tries to stand but he can barely keep from rocking sideways. Greg presses lightly on Spike’s shoulder, keeping him in place. “No, please!”

Ed glares at Greg, an instinct borne of Spike’s floundering. “I’ll risk him keeling over if it calms this down.”

Greg doesn’t agree but it’s a moot point.

Spike stops fighting them and slumps forward, elbows on his knees. His claw-like bandages scrub back and forth through his hair. Blood drips onto the tile. It’s all over the bottom half of his face and neck.

He coughs and stutters out apologies even Greg can’t decipher.

“Please,” he groans. “_Please_, I’m sorry. Please…”

“Spike,” Ed starts. His hand rubs circles on Spike’s back. “How did you get out of the rubble?”

Spike shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Ed frowns. “We’re not mad. You have nothing to apologize for. You hear me? What you just endured was appalling and you’re allowed to process that however you need.”

Spike looks at Ed, really _looks_ at him, and whispers another trio that change Greg’s life. “But he’s gone.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack/Listening for the piece:  
“I’ll Keep You Safe” ~ Sleeping At Last  
“Stars” ~ The Weepies

They don’t get a chance to question him further, thanks in part to hospital staff choosing that moment to rush in and threaten to intubate if Spike didn’t calm down. They _did_ flush out his sinuses and however much Ed fought it, the mild sedative didn’t hurt either.

Greg’s cellphone rings just as Spike slows to a normal bpm.

“_Dad? I saw the news! Everyone is freaking out. Is he—_”

Greg holds up a placating hand even though Dean can’t see him. “He’s fine, son. I’m with him and Ed right now at the hospital. He’s safe. No major injuries.”

A beat of shock rings over the line.

“_He was _under _all that! How?_” Dean’s voice turns thick. “_I thought he…I thought he’d died, Dad_.”

“Me too,” Greg whispers. He longs to hold his son, soothe away the fears.

“_Promise me you’ll take care of him._”

“You even have to ask?”

“_Clark called from his dorm. He wants an update too._”

Greg’s lips turn up. “It’s nice you guys stayed close to home, can still stay in touch. We’ll have to go to one of Clark’s concerts sometime. He’s really loving that U of T program.”

Ed glances over. Greg waves the questioning look away.

“_Dad…_”

He should’ve known Dean wouldn’t fall for the attempt at distraction.

“I know, Dean. I know. But it’s just a concussion and some bruising.”

“_But is he _okay_?_”

Smart kid. Far, far too smart.

Greg does him the justice of answering honestly. “I can’t tell, Dean. Something spooked him down there. It took a long time to get him responsive. Too long.”

“_Shock?_”

“…Something like that, yeah.”

“_I love you, Dad._”

“I love you too, Dean. Stay safe.”

“_Give Spike a hug for me._”

* * *

Doctors change their minds and let him go home that very night, mostly because the sight of a hospital seems to be agitating Spike’s distress. He passes out on Greg’s guest bed without even getting under the covers. Greg throws a comforter over him and leaves him to it.

He wakes him throughout the night though, just to check that concussion. Spike answers the questions each time in a half-awake rasp, passing with flying colours. He _did_ forget the name of Greg’s favourite hockey team, but Greg forgives him.

The next morning, Spike shuffles down the steps and stops when he sees Greg at the table.

They’re hushed.

Then Spike mumbles, his voice still hoarse, “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching right now?”

Greg doesn’t dignify that with an answer, save one—

He rises from the table, hobbles over, and throws the cane aside to wrap Spike tightly in his arms.

Spike exhales a quiet sound of catharsis.

Guilt thorns, quick and dirty, through Greg. With this new Academy job, dating Marina, helping Dean settle into said Academy, it all means less time to connect with his team. Especially Spike.

The words come easily. “I’m so, _so _glad you’re alive.”

Spike relaxes in the hold, fitting perfectly into the shape of Greg’s arms like he was born to be there. It’s easy. It’s familiar. The absence of it has been festering inside Greg for the past year.

Spike wraps his arms around Greg’s neck like they always do in that childlike way Greg hope he never breaks.

“When I saw the news…and then Ed wasn’t answering my calls…”

“Boss?”

Greg holds his breath.

“I’m here,” Spike whispers. “Barely a scratch.”

Greg kisses him, a stolen flash of one, on his temple. “I know. You’re our wunderkind. Don’t you ever change, hear?”

Spike pulls back from the hug to grin. “I thought you weren’t my boss anymore.”

Greg swats him. “Cheeky kid.”

Spike is blessedly lucid this morning. The trend continues over the next week, while his lungs heal from the debris and the concussion goes down.

Sometimes, though, when Spike thinks no one is watching, a haunted quality flares in his eyes. He’ll go glassy, quiet.

Greg and Ed catch each other’s eye each time it happens and both their faces tighten in worry.

Spike’s superiors, along with the team, don’t really care how he crawled out of the rubble, so long as he did. He’s cleared easily with only one small post-it on his psych evaluation about ‘trouble sleeping.’

One afternoon, while Greg is visiting the station and Winnie steps out of their lunch date, Spike sighs.

Greg touches his arm. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah, boss. I’m fine.”

“Spike, I know it doesn’t truly matter. But…how did you survive that explosion?”

Spike puts down his drink. He stares at the cafeteria table. A top tooth worries at his bottom lip and his hand clenches into a knotted fist, the still-healing gouges straining.

Greg senses he’s toeing a live wire with this question.

“Not sure you’ll believe me,” Spike admits.

“Oh, trust me—I’ve seen a lot in my years. What people say is statistically impossible works sometimes. Proof being that you’re sitting here at all.”

Spike glances up at him, then back down. “There’s not much to it, boss.”

Greg can’t get him to stop using the title, even though Ed is now technically Spike’s ‘boss.’

“Try me,” he says, like on that phone call with Ed.

Spike does, in slow stops and starts. “One of the support beams and a squashed car created a bubble of space just big enough for me to fit. Protected me from…the worst of the shifting.”

Greg squints. “And then?”

“Then I found a ventilation shaft. Scuttled up it and around fallen pillars. It was a beast to climb.” He holds up his hands with a rueful lift of one eyebrow. “The shaft led to a grate in a deserted alley.”

This situation calls for control and impartiality but Greg can’t quite filter out his skepticism. “And then you _walked_ to the hospital? With a blast concussion?”

Spike is quiet. He traces shapes on the table left by his soda’s condensation. There it is again, the dead flicker in Spike’s gaze. Like he’s in a boat, floating away from them. Out into the wild blue ocean, growing smaller and smaller…

“Yeah.” The word has a musical quality. A melodic note like a lullaby or a melancholy air. “Then I walked to the hospital.”

The injuries, the facts, they all line up with Spike’s account, however incredible.

Greg taps Spike’s fist and it uncurls. “Thank you for telling me.”

The account would settle an SIU panel. It _has_ settled an SIU panel and all the mandatory tests that come with injuries like this.

Not Greg. He knows Spike far too well to be satisfied.

_What are you carrying in that heavy heart, Spike?_

* * *

“You keep your washing machine in the garage?” Spike makes a face. His grip is tight around a black tool bag. “But not the dryer?”

Wordy sighs, a burdened sound that declares he’s had to explain this over and over again. “_Yes_. When I was a kid, our washing machine went ballistic and leaked all over the first floor. Smelled like a crack house. We had to move into my grandparents’ place for _weeks. _Ever since then…”

“Garage with a drain. Got it.” Spike shakes his head. His eyes have already perked with that alertness Greg has come to recognize anywhere, which says he’s assessing the problem but enjoying it. “You say the water pressure won’t build?”

“And the buttons don’t line up with their proper process.” Wordy points to the knob. “See? If I turn it to cotton cycle, the light comes on over delicates. Same with hot and cold water.”

Spike narrows his eyes. He gives the washer one last assessing look and then flashes a thumbs up. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I can have it fixed in thirty minutes.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate you coming in on your day off.”

Spike waves Wordy’s thanks off. “No problem. Gives me an excuse not to clean the mess from last night’s fettuccine nightmare.”

Greg puts a hand to his chest and squawks an outraged sound. “Excuse me? Did I not cook you authentic food with my own two hands?”

“You did not,” Spike deadpans. Wordy laughs. “_I _made it after you caused a small fire in your oven.”

Greg grumbles and Wordy’s eyes are sparking with mirth. Greg ribs his stomach to get him to shut up.

Truthfully, Greg isn’t sure why Wordy invited him over to his house. He took the call for Spike, of course—a house of three children and a sweaty police officer _need_ their washing machine—but the potential reasons why Greg may have been invited make him concerned.

Spike turns an empty milk crate upside down and sits on it. Pulling the machine slightly away from the wall, Spike pops open an electrical panel at the back. The screws glint in Greg’s eye by a bright halogen bulb Wordy set up.

Lilly, Wordy’s oldest daughter, pops her head around the door. “Is Spike gonna fix it?”

“He sure is.” Wordy smiles. “He’s the best at this kind of stuff.”

Lilly’s eyes turn to Spike. She takes in his scarred hands and the screwdriver and pliers grasped within them and bolts back inside.

Spike stutters, spooked. “Hope it wasn’t something I said.”

Wordy frowns at the closed door.

“It’s probably just your scars,” says Greg, bending to squeeze Spike’s shoulder. “They can be scary for kids.”

“Right.” Spike just blinks for a moment. His eyes are far away, but not for long, not long enough for Greg to instinctively move to snap him out of it. “Right. Here we go.”

He rummages inside the gutted machine.

“Have you had this serviced?” he asks Wordy. “These two wires shouldn’t be touching.”

“No, we haven’t…” Wordy cants his head. “Could they have been jostled together during a wash cycle? Our machine is pretty wobbly.”

“It’s possible, though it wouldn’t explain—”

They’re interrupted by the return of Lilly. She pad-pad-pads into the garage in her slippers, holding a stuffed doll with purple and red yarn hair. Hoops are coloured onto the earlobe, sloppy crisscross x’s on the doll’s legs Sharpie-ed in place of fishnet hose.

Greg smiles.

She totally bypasses the two men in a beeline for Spike. Spike doesn’t see her at first, focused on separating the two wires and fusing them back in their rightful places.

Lilly waits patiently. Then she clears her throat.

Spike glances over at her in time to catch the doll placed in his lap. He rolls with it, not missing a beat. “Is she going to be my partner today? I miss having a buddy to help me fix things.”

Greg’s throat tightens. Wordy goes still beside him.

Lilly’s little brow does a dive. Her eyes look forty years old in this moment, a laser focus point burning through Spike. It swoops Greg’s breath away.

“No,” she says quietly. “This is Trina. I don’t really play with dolls anymore, but she’s for you.”

“Well, thank you.” Spike pats the doll’s head, where she sits on his knees. His eyes are already sliding back inside the washer. “Maybe she could pass me a soldering iron?”

The question’s not really directed at her and Wordy immediately hands the tool to him. “Let’s give Spike and Trina some room, Lilly. Don’t want you to get burned…”

She’s not even listening to her father, a move that floors them all. Lilly is devoted to Wordy, one of the most obedient children Greg has ever met.

It’s shocking enough to regain Spike’s attention.

If anything, she moves closer, hand on Spike’s frozen forearm. He stares at the little girl. His eyes are glassy again, but something tells Greg that this isn’t like normal.

“You weren’t alone before,” Lilly whispers. “And you’re not now.”

Spike’s breathing misses a beat.

The scene reminds Greg of a study where psychologists tried to prove that babies could talk to each other, that they had a language of their own adults would never understand. That with simple, almost subconscious body language cues, they lived in a whole, synchronized world of their own.

This isn’t like that at all in context, obviously.

But Greg watches Lilly tap on Spike’s chest, then the doll, the way Spike’s lips part in an ‘o’ shape of complete awe—and thinks maybe they understand something he doesn’t.

Between Spike’s innocent, wounded expression and Lilly’s wise eyes, they meet somewhere in the middle on equal footing.

At least one thing is suddenly clear:

Greg leans into Wordy, voice low. “You broke your own washing machine, didn’t you?”

Wordy’s gaze is on the tender scene, but his lips twitch up. “What gave me away?”

“The screws,” says Greg. “They’re brand new and your washer is ten years old.”

Wordy shakes his head, eyes warm. “He needed something to fix, to feel normal.”

They go quiet when Spike flips his arm around to take Lilly’s hand. She looks relieved, chest releasing all its air. It only increases Greg’s curiosity and confusion.

“Everything is fine,” Spike assures her, though his tired eyes and frayed voice don’t exactly back that up. “That bomb was really scary but I’m okay.”

Lilly looks at their intertwined hands, Spike’s not even that much bigger than hers, despite his long fingers.

“No, you’re not,” she says. “But you will be.”

She glances back at her father and then, for some wild reason, at Spike’s ribs. At last, her eyes lift to meet his head on. “We all need a buddy.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to whoever read this far! The Weepies' song "Stars" is really for this chapter, fitting really well with that sleepy, cathartic moment at the end. Sorry this chapter is so long - I couldn't find a clean or satisfying way to break it up!

'Hold out your hand  
Can you feel the weight of it,  
The whole world at your fingertips?  
Don’t be, don’t be afraid.'

"I'll Keep You Safe" ~ Sleeping At Last

Ed has come a long way since Greg met him, all those years ago. He’s less aggressive. Not so dominating. More in tune with how people feel or if they’re struggling.

It’s not clear which Ed is in full swing when he suggests a weekend camping trip, “just us guys.” A testosterone-fuelled suggestion to anyone looking on.

Greg, however, doesn’t miss all his worried glances at Spike’s nearly empty plate and visible ribs over his shirt collar at the latest team barbeque. Maybe this _is _Ed’s way of being sensitive.

The trip ends up being the four of them:

Spike and Sam crammed into the back of Greg’s truck swapping hockey stories. Ed drives and Greg shakes his head. The stories get wilder and more outlandish—“I _dove _for the puck and did a spin before slapping it out of the net!”—but Spike completely relaxes by the time they get to the trail head so neither Greg or Ed, by mutual and unspoken consensus, voice a word of protest.

They pack light, but Spike notices them secretly trying to shoulder everything before he can and insists on carrying a bag. He and Greg still get the easiest ones—food and fishing tackle, respectively—but thankfully this one Spike doesn’t pick up on.

It’s a short hike and mostly flat, in deference to Greg’s leg. He’s proud to be barely winded by the time they make it from the parking lot to their tent spot.

“Oh, wow.” Greg shields his eyes to survey. “When you said by the lake, you really meant…”

Grinning ear to ear, little boy spark in his eyes, Sam pulls up to Greg’s side. Lake Ontario laps at their boots. The rustle and low voices of Ed and Spike signal them unfurling both tents yet Greg can’t bring himself to look away.

“My dad used to bring me here every summer,” says Sam. “No cars. No human noise except for us.”

Greg closes his eyes. It really _is _quiet, despite the fact they’re a fifteen minute walk to the road.

“I’m glad you had that time with him, Sam.”

The man sets a hand on his hip. “I want to keep the legacy going. Sadie’s too young but I’ll take her here someday.”

Spike pipes up. “Guess we’ll have to do for now.”

Sam just grins wider.

All four are mellow and lazy for the evening. Greg ends up in a lawn chair, watching Sam and Ed bicker over the proper way to start a bonfire. His eyes glint.

Spike stands off to one side with a funny look on his face.

Greg winks at him and he walks over.

“Think we should tell ‘em, Spike?”

Spike angles his head while considering. “I want to be insulted, but this is just sad.”

Greg hides a smirk behind his hand.

“You have to build a cone shape so there’s room for air flow at the bottom!” says Sam.

Ed throws up his hands. “For the last time—it doesn’t matter how you stack it, so long as kindling rings the stones.”

“You’ll choke it out!”

“And yours will take forever to get a blaze going. Do you want to eat these steaks?”

This grabs Sam’s full attention. “We’re having steak?”

“Not if we do it your way.”

“It’s the army way.”

“Well, the army way is slow and ineffective.”

“You’re questioning your own government’s endorsed method of survival?” Sam asks incredulously.

Ed snorts. “If I had a dollar for every time I questioned the government’s—”

_FWHOOOOOSSSHHH!_

The two men stare in awe at their wood pile. Now a roaring tower of flames. It erupted in seconds and all Ed and Sam can do for a beat is marvel at it.

Spike claps off his hands. “Scarlatti way is the best way. You know I’m good for _creating_ explosions too, right?”

Ed blinks. “Sure, but is your way legal?”

“It is if I don’t tell you otherwise and let you live in ignorance.”

“Works for me!” Sam claps the tech’s shoulder. “Let’s eat.”

Greg pretends not to see Spike tuck a small vial of some chemical and a lighter back into his vest pocket. He doesn’t recognize the liquid and realizes he probably doesn’t want to.

Ed is still analyzing the bonfire.

Spike takes pity on him. “Both your methods would have worked, though you really should leave room for oxygen circulation.”

“Huh.” Ed nods, absent. “Noted.”

It turns out to be the best steak Greg’s ever eaten, oozing and juicy and just rare enough to match the crisp night air. The smell of wild pine proves to be the best side dish to fuel their appetites. They share family mishaps and rookie blunders.

Greg hasn’t laughed so hard in ages. He especially likes the story about a package of cocaine pushed by Ed in a baby stroller for an undercover op.

Though it’s barely midnight, they’re all tired after a long shift and decide to bunk early. 

Before lying down, Greg hears Sam whisper, “It’s okay, Spike. Just us here. You can close your eyes.”

Slowly, Greg zips up his tent. He lies there in the dark and prays Spike’s not lost. Ed breathes deeply next to him, already dead to the world. 

* * *

It’s only further incriminating when Spike is the last to wake up.

Ed returns from a run to Greg seated outside Spike and Sam’s tent. Listening for any distress. Sam is off to reel in breakfast.

“He still asleep?” Ed asks.

Greg nods. “It’s nearly nine.”

“Not like him.” Ed leans on his knees. “I thought that psychologist was grasping at straws but maybe she’s on to something.”

“Of course she’s on to something—I’ve lived with Spike for the last three weeks. Who do you think tipped her off? I hear him wandering around almost every night, the insomniac.”

Ed goes to reply, rolling his eyes, when Sam emerges from a thick bank of trees. He proudly holds up a line of rainbow trout, five in all.

“Breakfast is served!”

Greg does a double take at the man’s damp trousers and tousled hair. “Thanks, Sam. Five. Wow.”

Eyes narrowed, Ed steps closer to examine the fish, about the length of Greg’s wrist to elbow. They’re not too plump. Not skimpy either, like some around the Lakes. It’s how perfectly even they are that tips Ed off.

He puts it together a beat after Greg does. “You bought these at the tackle shop we passed on the way here, didn’t you?”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Are you questioning my ability to lure in a simple—”

“Yes.”

Sam shrinks. “It’s a sunny day. They kept darting away from my shadow.”

Greg stifles a laugh and Ed throws an arm around the younger man. “Come on. Team One is always willing to help out Three. We’re gallant like that.”

With a deadpan look, Sam shoots back, “Don’t you dare.”

“Camping trip rules dictate you have to fish for your breakfast. Can’t let you face your team having _bought_ the fish.”

“I think I can live with it.”

Ed pokes Sam with an exaggerated gasp at Greg. “Can you believe kids these days?”

“Better make sure he doesn’t fall in, Eddie. I forgot to bring floaties.”

The pair end up with waders on, twenty meters into the lake. Sam gripes the whole way. Greg can faintly hear Ed teaching him how to throw his fly line.

Sam only snags his hook on a bush once before he gets the hang of it. With the lack of wind and hazy summer air, it’s as peaceful a Saturday morning as Greg can ask for. His eyes slip shut.

He tilts his head back and savours the sun warming his face. Somewhere in the distance, a loon calls. Its throaty song echoes over the water.

Then soft footfalls crunch over the thin gravel. They settle in the chair beside Greg and a metallic click precedes the crackle of a fresh fire. There’s an iron rattle.

Greg opens his eyes to see Spike lean over the flames, warming their cast iron pan in preparation for breakfast.

Spike wears one of Sam’s thick cable knit sweaters, dark circles under his eyes.

Greg wonders how much of their clothing Spike has squirreled away somewhere, after years of stealing sweaters, boots, and in Jules’ case because he doesn’t fit into any of hers, hats and mittens. It’s a quirk they all know about but never call him out on.

Usually because said theft occurs after a call where one of them was in danger.

Wordy caught him once, after his diagnosis, nabbing a T-shirt off the pile while he was in the shower. The garment hung like a parachute on Spike’s lanky frame and Wordy melted at the sight. The next day, he laid out a scarf for Spike to throw on.

If anything, the team finds it painfully endearing. They’ve never talked about it with each other. Don’t have to. If the smell of their clothing makes Spike feel safe, then that’s that.

Spike sniffs at the abandoned line of trout. “Sam bought this fish. There’s freezer burn in the gills.”

Greg barks a surprised laugh. Of all of them, ‘I-hate-the-woods’ Scarlatti would be the last expected to notice.

“Besides.” Spike removes a packet from his pocket, shakes it out, and dumps it into a pot of water that’s just finished boiling. “Who needs breakfast when you’ve got the nectar of life?”

The smell hits a split second after. Greg’s mouth waters. “You brought _coffee_?”

“I figured it was worth Ed’s wrath if I get to stay awake.”

Greg imitates Ed’s stern voice. “ ‘No contraband! This is a survival weekend!’”

“ ‘The land provides everything we need!’”

“ ‘If it’s good enough for the army, Braddock, then you should feel right at home.’”

Spike snickers. “Here, boss.”

“Aaahh, thank you.” Greg blows on his mug. It’s a dark roast, probably shipped by Spike’s mother straight from a local farm. “Blond roast for you?” He asks, catching Spike put another packet in. “You never liked it before.”

“Did you know blond roast coffee actually has _more _caffeine?” Spike doesn’t technically answer Greg’s query but in a way, maybe he does. “The more a bean is roasted, the more caffeine gets burned out.”

Greg eyes his coffee and how it matches Spike’s tired eyes. “I didn’t know that. You always teach me something new.”

“Encyclopedia Spike.” The man pours into his own chipped mug. “Has a ring to it.”

For a minute there is only the comradery of two people trying to wake up. They sip and watch Ed recast his line. Sam already has a kipper hooked on his belt. Spike flips three of their store-bought trout into the pan.

Its sizzling is a cheery sound and even Spike, not a huge fan of seafood, seems to enjoy it.

He’s wan, exhausted, but at ease. Despite the fact he’s physically fine, cleared for—light—duty and reinstated without a hitch, Greg spies a weight in his gaze. Like his spirit is infected.

“You know, it occurred to me last night,” says Greg, “thinking all this over…we haven’t asked the right question, have we? Not even once.”

Spike’s eyes are on the fire. He doesn’t give any outward reaction other than a stiff set to his shoulders.

“We’ve asked about how you made it out. Where your injuries came from. SIU rehashed the bomb defusion process to death, despite my badgering…”

Spike’s brow shifts in agreement with that one.

“But none of that was the point, was it? None of that stuck with you.”

A hush steals over them, one that makes Spike’s hands clench and Greg confident that he’s finally getting to the heart of the issue. A light at the end of this tunnel.

“Spike,” Greg asks, sotto voce. “Spike, _who_ got you out of that rubble?”

Spike tugs at the sweater cuffs to cover his hands, a strangely adolescent and insecure motion. It’s not hard to pull off since Sam’s arms are longer by a good few inches.

Then Spike stills.

That haunted note swells in his eyes again. He speaks even quieter than Greg. “Lew. Lew got me out.”

They are silent. Firewood snaps and a chipmunk chatters in the tree overhead.

Human Greg wants to argue Spike’s claim.

Negotiator and Profiler Greg want to delve into the psychology of a hallucination that vivid. Guilt-driven, perhaps?

First Responder Greg wants to rationalize it away as a result of severe stress and the concussion.

In the end, after a fierce internal battle, Parent Greg wins out—

He doesn’t say a word.

“I didn’t lie in my official account,” Spike continues. “I really did get trapped in a concrete bubble. But the end of a support beam clipped my ribs on the way down.”

A wave of remembered turmoil darkens Spike’s face. There’s a finality to it that absolutely petrifies Greg.

“I could feel something bleeding inside me, a fatal blow. Probably minutes left. You, of all people, you know what it’s like to feel yourself dying. It was cold…I could barely move my head and neck, so weak. And then…”

Caught up in trying to regulate his own breathing, Greg almost misses the shift in tone.

“And then he was there, kneeling over me,” says Spike, awed. “He looked over his shoulder and asked someone I couldn’t see, ‘can I?’ Then nodded and put his hand on my left side and the pain vanished. I wasn’t freezing so much.”

Spike’s lips twist. He clasps Greg’s bare forearm. “I know you don’t believe me, but it was as real as this. I swear.”

He removes his hand yet the warmth of it lingers. Spike rests it over his left set of ribs and Greg imagines he can still feel Lew’s phantom touch, just like Greg can feel Spike’s.

“He was _there_.” Spike swallows an uneven breath. “Thought that was it, boss. I had to be dead. But Lew pushed me to get up, kept saying, ‘no, no, no. It’s not your time yet. You still have so much to do.’ Do _what_, I ask him. What could be so important?”

_Oh, Spike. _Still, Greg stays quiet.

Spike’s hand then strays to just over his chest. He taps it. “Lew, all the time he was leading me to the ventilation shaft and then up it, kept pointing to my lungs and saying, ‘_This_, Mike. Next breath.’ And that shaft was hell, boss. A few times I almost…”

Spike stops, eyes bright. He doesn’t say ‘died’ or ‘dearly wanted to’ but Greg hears it anyway.

He can’t fathom that kind of claustrophobia: weak, concussed, barely breathing.

“I didn’t know where I was or how to get to the hospital. It didn’t matter.” Spike nods. “Lew showed me. It felt impossible just to keep my eyes open, let alone follow him.

“Whenever I fell, he was there to haul me up. ‘Next breath!’ he said. I knew if I closed my eyes, he’d disappear.”

Greg’s throat is thick. Breathing unsteady and stuttering.

It takes a moment to put together but once Greg does, awe is his first emotion too. “Lew was there in the emergency room with us, wasn’t he?”

A tear plinks into Spike’s coffee. He nods.

“You pulled the gun because you lost sight of him when staff crowded in.”

Spike exhales wetly, in a rush. “Lew scolded me for that. For scaring you. He just kept talking and talking. Even followed me around during all the tests and into the bathroom. He sat beside the nurse outside the shower curtain, telling me all about Donna and how much you guys care and aren’t going to…”

Spike catches himself. The cut off to this classic and on-brand rambling is a knife straight to Greg’s gut. He grabs Spike’s hand. Spike tries to yank away but Greg won’t give him an inch.

“We’re not going to abandon you, Spike.”

“I know that—”

“And you had nothing to apologize to Lew for. He made his choice. You didn’t leave him behind.”

Spike, though his eyes don’t stray from the ground, fights with himself. Features twisted and shaking.

“He wouldn’t let me apologize,” Spike rasps.

It clicks again. “Lew waited around just long enough to see you taken care of and come out of shock. When Ed touched you…Lew said his goodbye.”

Spike bows his head. Greg gives him time to compose himself by removing their slightly-burned fish.

“I’m sorry.”

Greg sits back. “What did I _just _say about apologizing?”

“I wanted to go with him.” Spike shakes his head. “We argued about it in the shaft.”

The morning turns chilly.

“The gun wasn’t just to keep you away,” Spike whispers. “I was trying to make Lew stay. By threatening to use it.”

“You never would have done it.” And Greg knows this with unfailing certainty. Spike doesn’t have the darkness inside him for suicide.

“That’s what Lew said.” Spike huffs, sheepish. “ ‘Next breath,’ he kept ordering me.”

“I’m glad he did.” Greg’s dying to ask what Lew said in goodbye, but he respects Spike too much. “You’ll—_we’ll_—see him again someday.”

“You don’t think any of that was real.”

Greg pauses. He tilts his chair to better face Spike. “I think there’s more than one definition of ‘real’ here. It was very real. Lew got you out, kept you alive, gave you stability during a moment of crisis. All logic says you should have died yet here you are. Nothing more real than that.”

Spike scowls. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I haven’t told anyone. You probably think it’s a delusion.”

“To be honest, I don’t care whether Lew showed up in a vision of angels or was made up by your mind—the effect is the same.”

Taken aback, Spike studies him with conflicted eyes.

Greg squeezes his hand. “You’re _here_, Spike. That’s the only fact that counts.”

He gives Spike some space, to mull that one over. Greg needs it too, floored at the notion of Spike’s original trance being thanks to an invisible, dead friend standing there. That Spike’s been carrying around the guilt of nearly giving up and feeling responsible for Lew’s death all over again.

An almighty splash makes both jump. Greg stands to get a better look into the lake where Sam laughs at a spluttering Ed. Ed is up to his neck, spitting out water.

“What happened?” asks Greg, when the pair wades back in. “Sam, did you push him over?”

“Hardly.” Sam lights up with a wicked grin. “Though Ed would love it if that’s the version I tell on Monday.”

Spike eyes Ed’s dripping form, dubious. “Don’t put out my fire. I just got it hot enough to boil water.”

Ed obediently shifts away and it’s such a pure moment that Greg loves these people all over again.

“Did you at least catch something from a lake and not a store?” Spike asks.

Sam smacks Ed’s wet shoulder. “There might actually be something to this fly fishing thing.”

Ed growls. “Not a word.”

Sam drops to a loud whisper. “Something caught _Ed_.”

“Oh.” Spike gasps in delight, Sam’s ribbing contagious. “No way.”

Even Greg can’t believe it. “Ed, did—did a fish _pull_ you in?”

Ed levels him with a glare of vicious loathing. One that’s made weaker men pale.

Sam breaks into stifled giggles and Spike smiles, one that reaches all the way to his eyes for the first time in over two weeks.

The sight is so startling that Sam stops altogether and Ed looks from Spike to the burned pan. He seems to reach a decision.

“The student has become the master,” Ed groans in defeat. “Insolent brat he may be, but Sam’s a good fisherman.”

Sam bows with a flourish, presenting three small fish on his line. “I was not bested by a mere minnow—”

“Don’t push it,” Ed mumbles.

“—Unlike some I could name but will not.”

“Being sopping wet is punishment enough,” Greg chimes in, to keep it going.

Sam snaps his fingers. “Exactly! And I’m a good sport.”

“_So_ good, in fact.” Ed wrings out his windbreaker. “That you’ll tell my wife and everyone at the station that you pushed me in.”

“Mmm.” Sam squints. “Might cost you extra.”

Ed slaps at Sam with the wet fabric. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“Tell you what—I’ll throw in some heroic element like you saving me from drowning if you clean the command truck for a month.”

“Cleaning the truck is Spike’s job!”

Spike concedes this with a dramatic sigh. “He’s right. It is my job. All by myself…no one to help…”

Sam hops out of Ed’s threatening reach. “Which is why you should get a month off at Ed’s expense. I mean, he’s so good with water after all.”

“Why you little—” Ed slaps at him again, just a hair late.

There’s a pealing sound that’s been so long unheard it takes Greg a solid moment to recognize it.

Spike _laughs_. He’s laughing—belly laughing!—and that’s the final straw.

Sam’s off too, joining in without restraint. Tension bleeds out of Greg’s body he didn’t even notice was there all this time. Ed looks far too smug, though even he’s chuckling a little.

_Good job, Eddie._

They spend the day hiking and telling more stories over cards. Ed takes Spike out to teach _him_ how to fly fish. He doesn’t catch a single thing, though Ed doesn’t seem to care. Spike’s eyes are engaged, in the present, and more energized than they’ve been for weeks.

After a late, sunset supper—more fish—Ed breaks out an old guitar from somewhere. He just plucks at it while fireflies gather over the water and around their feet.

Their swaying clouds, coupled with the sound of crickets and balmy scent of wildflowers, lull Greg. Full belly, warm night. Perfect combination.

It’s after two in the morning when Spike, who dozed off in his chair, jerks awake. It shocks Greg. Even Sam is down for the count. His head rests against his chest in the chair to Greg’s left.

Ed will probably follow shortly, despite the fact he’s still picking out broken chords.

Spike’s eyes do a zip around the campsite. He eases back in his chair, remembering fully where he is.

Greg doesn’t interrupt the contemplative set to Spike’s features. It’s almost like the day they found him at the hospital.

Ed’s playing misses a beat; he sees it too.

This time, Greg knows what Spike is reliving, what he keeps replaying. The two men are quiet but on the alert for if this takes a concerning turn.

Then Spike shakes himself to the present.

He timidly taps Greg’s shoulder. “You should buy that ring you keep looking at for Marina. She’s been waiting for you to ask.”

Greg freezes, his pulse skipping a beat. Spike removes his hand.

“I haven’t told a soul that,” Greg whispers. “How did you know?”

Spike winks, a sweet gesture with how droopy his eyes are, nose buried in a fluffy blanket wrapped around him and his drawn knees. “He told me about it while we walked to the hospital.”

If Greg wasn’t already sitting down, he’d fall over.

A wide yawn overtakes Spike’s sleepy face. “Hey, boss?”

Greg gets his sucker punched heart—and voice—working. “Yeah, Spike?”

“Thanks for coming for me. At the hospital.”

Ed stops playing altogether. His left hand is tight over the neck of the guitar.

Something passes between he and Greg, a totally wordless and yet violent lightning flash of like-mindedness. Both of them breathless with the need to guard these kids, even though there’s no threat.

Greg swallows. “Always, Spike. We’ll always come for you.”

“I know. It just meant a lot.” Spike’s eyes shut for good. “And go with the yellow diamond, not a pink one. Lew said she doesn’t like that.”

With that bombshell, he’s out.

A firefly settles on the blanket near the nub of his scar. Greg knows they should probably move the younger men; it can’t be comfortable to sleep curled up in a folding chair.

But there’s something sacred swathing this hush. To break it feels wrong.

Greg hears that loon calling again. A mournful note answers, an owl. Over it all, Spike takes a breath. Then another one. And another…

It’s still Greg’s favourite sound.

He sits there, Ed’s eyes knowing across the fire, embers dimming to match the fireflies…

And he understands.

His eyes flick upward.

“Thanks, Lew.”

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Written March 2019.


End file.
